


Like Spires in Moonlight

by Niamh_St_George



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/Niamh_St_George
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruminations over Oxford leave Harriet faced with a few... interesting comparisons.  Takes place sometime after Busman's Honeymoon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Spires in Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexElizabeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexElizabeth/gifts).



Harriet couldn't see the spires.

This mightn't have been problematic if she'd been somewhere other than at the top of the Magdalen Great Tower; if she'd been back in Mecklenburg Square, for example, working industriously (as she felt, with the vaguest pang of guilt, she ought to be doing), she'd have had no such view. But as luck would have it, she was atop the Tower. She knew Oxford was spread out before her with not only its spires, but its winding streets as well, curling around buildings like the tail of a cat. Somewhere out there was, Harriet _knew,_ the Radcliffe Camera, its dome settled in amongst the spires. Every last college was spread out below, each nestled within its niche, each with its own unique appearance and feel, down to the quadrangle. Everything, every last building, every last stone, all contributed to the feel of the place -- its _spirit_ , for lack of a better word. Oxford lived and breathed around her; indeed, Harriet knew all too well how the Tower swayed after the bells had been rung, as if the structure itself were overcome with powerful feeling.

Tonight, however, Harriet found she saw very little beyond a few twinkling lights that persevered despite the hour, which was not terribly late, as it happened, but given the season, evening made its appearance uncommonly early. The darkness was then compounded by the heavy, leaden clouds stretched out overhead for as far as the eye could see -- or _not_ , as was in fact the case. A brisk wind, made sharper by the sheer altitude, whipped through her hair, and Harriet found she could do little else but close her eyes and tip her face up into the wind, meeting that biting, invigorating blast. Snowflakes swirled above her; even if she couldn't see them, Harriet felt them land upon her face, tiny points, colder than the wind.

Michelmas term had drawn to a close, and though Harriet could see very little (such an odd consideration, given her vantage point, she had to admit), she could _hear_ quite a lot. Laughter drifted up, caught upon the wind, mingling with the distant sounds of a more musical sort of revelry: cheerfully off-key Christmas carols, coming from a dormitory somewhere in Shrewsbury, Harriet was certain. Holiday anticipation blended seamlessly with giddy relief over end of term, and it put a sort of electricity in the air. In a day or so, the students would depart, flowing out of the colleges and off to family, leaving university behind for a short while. In their absence, everything _here_ would quiet down, the university settling in as if in hibernation, until those same students returned, reinvigorating the very lifeblood of the place itself. Everything continued, everything moved; even when it seemed that everything had stilled, the lull was only ever temporary.

And for the strangest moment, as Harriet stood atop that tower, she could not help but feel as if her life were spread out before her, so very like Oxford itself. Different pieces fitted together like the stones and buildings; choices threaded throughout, crafting winding paths so like the streets below. There were quiet, hidden places, too; the crypt at St. Edmund's, cool and dark, concealed far below everything else. Harriet had her own secrets, her own thoughts and memories tucked away beneath the surface. And of course there had been a time when those crypts, metaphoric though they were, held true skeletons, filled to capacity with bitterness that had at one time seemed destined to poison her soul. But now… now, though some things remained buried, they were entirely at rest, and that sharp bitterness found itself replaced with a sanguine sort of peace Harriet at one time dared not even hope for.

In a strange way, it seemed almost appropriate she'd chosen to come back now. When she'd first arrived here so many years ago, Oxford was little more than a place -- a location, albeit different from what she'd known previously, but a _place_ all the same. Over time, memories and experience (perhaps the latter even more than the former) made it seem to evolve into something much, much more than a point on a map. With every return, Oxford seemed different to her, but now, as she turned her attention back to the snowy dimness, Harriet couldn't say with any degree of certainty whether Oxford had truly evolved, or if _she_ had.

 _Possibly_ , she thought, peering thoughtfully over the edge, _a little of both._

Harriet took in the view a little longer, a faintly wry smile lighting her lips as she murmured, half to herself, _"'Once again do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, that on a wild secluded scene impress thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky.'"_ After a second or two, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "Though perhaps _not_ the very same sort of wild secluded scene as was originally intended, and yet…" Just then the chorus of another lively-sung carol met her ears and Harriet smiled despite herself. "And yet appropriate all the same."

A voice came just then from behind her, but the speaker's presence was the furthest thing from a surprise just then: "Ah, here you are. _'Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown put on, and smile upon our evening bed.'_ I say, aren't you a bit close to the edge there, m'dear?" Harriet turned to spy Peter crossing the rooftop, eyeing her proximity to the Tower's edge with skepticism.

Upon her sigh, Harriet let out only the barest breath of laughter as she met Peter halfway, shaking her head fondly at him. "I was precisely as close as I wished to be, thank you. And it would take quite a bright torch indeed to be seen at all through this," she said, gesturing at the snow, which was starting to fall more heavily.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he asked, and there was a shade of slyness to his tone. With the slightest narrowing of her eyes, Harriet regarded him more closely.

"There's something you aren't saying, Peter. Tell me, what is it?"

He tipped his head back and let out a laugh. "Oh, missus, there are dozens of things I'm not saying. Which, truly, only means I'm not half the foolish ass I try to be." He paused meaningfully. "Do try and keep that one under your cap, would you? I have a reputation to maintain, and I should be very vexed if anyone other than you had figured out my secret."

Harriet's eyebrow lifted only slightly of its own accord. "I figured out this secret long ago, and I doubt I'm the only one. You've forgotten about Bunter."

"On the contrary," he riposted lightly, "I haven't forgotten anything of the like. In fact, I daresay, my good woman, Bunter was never fooled by my attempts at artifice, blasted frustrating, insightful man. Perhaps it's my fate to be surrounded by insightful types unfazed by my silliness, hmm?" Peter looked thoughtful a moment, then shook his head. "No, I think that's not true either; Helen's testament enough to that, wouldn't you agree?"

Harriet allowed herself a small smile at this mention of Peter's sister in-law, then shook her head. "You may be right about that. She does find herself uncommonly vexed around you, I've noticed."

"Tell me, d'you think she's figured out I do it intentionally?"

"I imagine you'll be much put-out if she ever does," Harriet answered as gravely as she could.

At that, Peter smiled, all feline satisfaction. "Ain't _that_ the truth."

"I shall endeavor to mask my surprise at this particular revelation."

"Oh, thank you. It would be truly horrid if the truth of the thing were to come out."

"Of course." She fell silent again, watching her husband closely. After a few seconds passed in silence, Harriet cleared her throat pointedly. "And you've still not told me what it is you aren't telling me, Peter."

"You noticed that, did you?"

"Indeed."

"I only meant, my dear heart's delight," he replied, with a faint, vaguely rueful smile, "that I'm quite confident I should be able to glimpse the torch of _your_ love with very little effort indeed, should I ever be lucky enough to see it made manifest." He brought one hand up to touch her cheek before wandering into her hair, flecked, she was certain, with a dusting of snowflakes. "Smile upon our evening bed, and I shall happily call myself Endymion, my lovely Selene, and live forever in sleep."

"I'm quite certain your restless spirit never could endure such a fate," she answered, reaching up to clasp his hand in hers. "Tell me, are we ready to depart?"

"From this dreadfully cold rooftop?" he asked with an exaggerated shiver. "Yes, I should say so. Jerry's asked we meet him for a late supper before he departs for Duke's Denver. I fear it'll be a late arrival to Pagford for us, but as they say, better late than never." He peered over the edge as if considering the drop. "And what of you, missus? Find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then lead on, Domina," he said, taking her arm and tucking it against his. "So tell me, have you decided? Was your poor, fictional victim pushed, or did he jump to his own doom?"

Faced now with the true reason she'd ventured to the top of the Tower to begin with, Harriet felt vaguely sheepish to have been caught up so utterly in her own ruminations. Before answering, she looked behind them a moment. Snow still fell, drifting haphazardly downwards and lazily collecting on the ground, but now the clouds had parted, and as the moon shone down, all that had been hidden before was now revealed in pale winter moonlight. She could now see the spires of Oxford. Spires which had certainly been present before, but which she'd simply been unable to see, unable to appreciate.

A flash of memory descended upon her just then -- an evening walk upon New College Lane, that moment of darkness before light as she and Peter had passed beneath the arch of Magdalen Bridge, and that _moment_ between them after stepping back into the faint light. A moment, Harriet remembered vividly, wherein all that had seemed so murky and uncertain passed into perfect clarity.

If Philip was Harriet's crypt at St. Edmund's, Peter was her spires of Oxford: unique and ever more noticeable when absent.

"I think," she answered slowly, "my poor victim fell quite by accident."


End file.
